I keep Hello Poetry
at the bottom of my page
so that when I need to
descend into language
I stop gesticulating
in such awkward
maneuvers, and
start to think

I don't remember
opening this other
bottle of wine, but
it is here now with its
disgusting insistence

Knock, knock,
Whose there?
It's me, you ******* idiot,
who did you think it was?

oh, man
I am having
a really good time here
all by myself,
making a lot of noise
to make up for
the silence

I saw him there alone at his task
upon his pedestal.
It was large enough
for him to turn
in short little steps
and still keep his balance
but no more than that,
as he turned and he turned,
and always kept turning.


Just a hand
on the pedestal
would have been trampled
by his continual turning,
in short little steps
around and around,
alone at his task
as he turned and he turned,
and he turned, always turning.


His clothing a veil
that couldn't conceal
the glow on his face.
And the strength
so apparent
in the task he performed
as he turned and he turned
and he turned and he turned,
and he turned and he turned,
always turning.


With his strong arms
bent slightly,  
he held a rope firmly
in sinewy hands
with thick fingers gripping,
he turned and he pulled,
and he turned and he pulled,
and he turned and he pulled,
always turning.






A strong muscled back
and large and sure legs
bent and locked at the knees;
he leaned back with the load
his arms stretched taut,
he turned and he pulled,
and he turned and he pulled,
he turned and he pulled,
always turning.


And as the rope
came by where I stood
I saw why he turned,
for licking around him
was a lake of fire burning
that lit up his face
as he turned and he pulled,
and he turned and he pulled,
he turned and he pulled
always turning.


At the end of the rope
was a large basket full,
of children all weeping
with nowhere to go,
too heavy to pull in
with arms stretched taut
as he turned and he turned,
and he pulled and he pulled,
and he turned and he pulled,
always turning.


They looked at the fire,
then earnestly to him
with eyes full of fear
as he held them perpetually,
above the flames;
In the glow of his face
I now recognized him
as he turned and kept turning
and turned,
always turning.





It was the father
who held them
and called them and told them
and pulled them and told them
that he couldn't pull them in,
there just wasn't room
on the pedestal for them,
but he would keep turning
and turning and turning,
and never stop turning,
no, never stop turning.




And he sang them a song
as they turned
and they turned;
he sang, "little children,
go around and around
and around and around
and around and around
and never stop turning."

I want to get so drunk
that I forget to eat,
even though I’ve been
working on my poor soup
all day, and try not
to remember the turkey
with all the stuffing
and the mashed potatoes
and gravy, the green bean
casserole, and the pies,
oh, my, those pies,
but I am the Christmas
outcast, the one who
denied the historic Jesus
his Saturnalia adoption,
and hurled Him and me
into this oblivion.

Silence,
  though sometimes golden
  is now awkward;
I came to you
  longing
  to drink
  from your fountain,
but you knew
  you could never fill
  this emptiness that is me,
    and you demurred,
    and sighed,
    and held me
  in your sad eyes,
    and wet my lips
    with a single kiss.

(Be sure to read my previous post, Chapter One, first)

As the story continues to unfold in newspapers all around the world, Raul and his mother and their cat sit bewildered at their kitchen table. The window is blown out and flies are everywhere. The old hawker’s cart lies in rubble on the street, the old man face down in the dirt beside it. The laundry still remains in the upper windows but is tarnished by soot. The old dirt street has been shredded by the tanks’ treads and buildings with gaping holes in the brick tenuously stand. No one is moving in the town, only Raul and his mother and their cat.
“Tell me this is all a dream,” says Raul’s mother, but Raul can’t. He can’t even speak because he is so choked up with tears that words will not come. He gets up from his chair and comes to stand by his mother and rubs her shoulder tenderly. She drops her head into her arms and sobs.
A Paris newspaper headline declaims, LES REBELLES DEFERLENT SUR L’AMERIQUE DU SUD. And another in Berlin, DIE REBELLEN FEGEN UBER SUDAMERIKA. The President of the United States issues a stern warning while privately wondering if he can marshal a strong enough protection at his southern border to prevent the rebellion from spreading. He has totally forgotten about the large Canal in Panama. He picks up his private phone and calls Raul’s mother. “How did you survive the attack?” he asks. She doesn’t understand it, how her phone is still working, and where the tanks have gone. “No se,” she replies. “No sabe,” echoes Raul. She doesn’t know. Raul doesn’t know and POTUS doesn’t know either, having been fully preoccupied with thousands of drones flying in over the Canadian border with smiley faces painted on their undersides, and the stubborn refusal of the prime minister of Sweden to answer her phone. FRILLIP he writes on a notepad on his desk, not even understanding what the letters mean. The word had appeared to him in a dream, and now a skywriting plane was writing it up in the clouds out of the window behind his desk. And by now you are wondering what the old man who is writing this is getting at with all his gibberish. The answer to this question is, “Absolutely nothing!” He is just wasting time on another dreary winter day. He stands away from his computer, goes to his kitchen and brushes his teeth, then pulls his pajama legs out of his woolen socks, disrobes and heads for a hot shower.

As I lay these things out for you to understand, please do not pretend that you do. These words are full of tricks. Like taking you to a place you have never been, and making you feel like you know it, making it all feel familiar. I called the place Argentina, but it was no further away than my writing desk. Do you understand now?
You think you can see children playing in the street and laundry hung from high windows, a street vendor honking his wares from an old cart, a cat lounging in a sunny doorway. But what was really there was a bowl of nuts on an old wooden table and a man dressed still in his pajamas, his pant legs tucked into his woolen socks, shaking his pen to get the last few drops of ink down before he consigned it to the waste bin and got another from the kitchen drawer. The coffee that was steaming on the stove might have been from Argentina and the weather could have been balmy and not frigid like the old man’s heart as he tells you his tale.
The old man’s writing had been previously thwarted by his children as they taught him to believe that he was destined and doomed to stay in that lonely old clapboard house forever, but he had escaped to a faraway land. The cat got up and wandered slowly in the trafficless street looking for something to eat. A child with a stick and a hoop came running by and the cat scurried out of the way. A very low rumble filled the air which smelled of cinnamon. No one knew the noise was from tanks because no one there had ever seen one before. A woman with a puffy dress that made you wonder what she looked like underneath it cocked her head out of a kitchen window. A steaming pie beside her revealed the source of the spicy smells. A flock of starlings flew by.
“Raul,” she called, “bring that cat to me. I have some milk for it.” The boy threw his hoop and stick down and chased after the cat which eluded him effortlessly by darting under a low wagon. The barker laughed and held out an apple for the boy and distracted him from his mission.
The old man groaned again and shifted in his chair and sipped his coffee wondering whether he should stop writing with his pen and shift to the keyboard because the pace of the story was about to pick up dramatically and go from a leisurely day in a small old town to full scale war. The old man pushed a button on his keyboard, but nothing happened. He remembered that he had unplugged it the night before and reached down from his chair, groaning again, and nearly fell out of it reaching for the plug. His elbow hit the coffee mug and spilled it all over a stack of bills waiting on the table to be paid and a stream of invectives flew from the old man’s lips. A woodpecker pecked loudly on the side of the old man’s house, and the same flock of starlings flew by his kitchen window. Are you curious enough now to go ahead and turn the page and see what happens in chapter two?

most everyone has
something to say, a
criticism, an observation,
an opinion, but I know
a girl who just runs around
encouraging everyone,
how wonderful is that?

a triscuit, a triscuit
a green and yellow biscuit
I went to town
to see my shrink
and on the way
I lost it.

words properly spoken
do not need to be strewn
all over the page
as if it were
a work of art,
let the artists
paint their pictures
while we poets
put our words
one after another,
line upon line,
hoping to be heard

These books of mine,
their titles bold,
which lie in wait
upon the shelves
just to be read
and never sold,
wait patiently
as I regard
their spine,
but never have
the urge to bring
them to my bed,
my eros dwindled
after years of
grand disapproval,
from them and others;
if they could speak
with pages unturned
they’d be a chorus
of reproving languor;
“you’ve done nothing
for us. Why don’t you
throw us on the burn pile?
you smile and spurn
our words and all the while
work at your poetry,
as if you have
at your command
the ages, but
cannot see the simple
things at hand;
you’ll never learn!”
So I, with dampened eyes
turn aside nocturnal
nonsense, and take one
down, and dust it off
and open up its pages
and realize its words
are eternally young,
while I’ve grown old
and spun my lifelong
web of lies, and missed
my opportunity,
languishing
in my impunity.

is my dislike for the exceptional
regional or conventional,
am I paranoid or schizophrenic,
am I a raging peripatetic
or a reasonably ignorant human,
these questions all remain
as I wipe my hands off
and digress from communication
and work my way back
down into my wormhole
until the holidays are over

I am at the side door;
I tried the latch,
but it is locked.
Around in front
others are coming
and going;
I can hear the commotion
of their greetings
and partings,
and I am thinking of
walking around
and participating;
but it is peaceful at
the side door,
and I know if I wait,
that eventually
you will come around
and let me in
and we will be
alone,
together.

Alexander the Great
had a wart on his ****,
it bothered him
so much he cried;
he was stuck with the thing,
it wouldn’t go away,
no matter how hard
he tried; he tried doctors,
magicians, incantations
and chants, formulas
to help him in bed,
but it wouldn’t go away,
he was stuck with the thing,
so he conquered the world instead.

what the heck is wrong with me,
ain't I got no sense?
I've spent my time with
frivolity, and lacked for
recompense; I never counted
anything before, but now
I'm feeling spent, maybe
I should have
played the game

Oh, ****
everything
I said before
is null and void
I have been
found out,
in the category
of preposterous.
the realm of bravado

oh ****, it's Friday
and nobody gives a ****
they're all drinking

Don't look up,
because if you divert
your attention
you will be blindsided
with more misery;
keep a steady eye
on the goal and
trudge forward,
your prayers
have already
been heard

I went looking
for my mother's grave;
it took me two weeks to find it,
and when I did, I was standing
on it; I actually looked around
to see if anyone else saw
what I had just done

The wind comes along
and cools your body
and lifts your spirits
and softens your day,
and pushes you gently
in a certain direction,
or blows so hard
you must stay wide awake;
and on those days
when it’s hot and still,
you want the wind to cool you,
don't you, and at those times
when you’re all alone,
you want the wind for comfort;
and on those days
when you’re not quite sure
and you want to see
clouds hurrying by,
you want the wind
to show you where
your heart must go,
but you cannot have it,
it comes when it wants
and it blows where it will,
it belongs to another,
one greater than you.

all you who scroll back
y'all come to your senses
there is nothing there

Love is always a risk;
once you give it away
you cannot be sure
if it will return.

Some will wear it
as an ornament,
posing, seeing only
how nice they look in it;

Some will reach out
and ****** it skillfully
from the air,
and throw it to the ground,
and laugh at your weakness;

Some will demean it
and call it a farce,
holding you accountable
for every act of transgression
before it;

Some, not knowing what it is,
will toss it, and play with it
until they tire of it
and then leave it behind
like a toy;

But where love is greatly valued,
it will be carried, carefully,
and placed upon an altar
of thanksgiving,
and reverenced;

And the author of love
will receive it,
and return it
in such great abundance,
it will overflow its course
and wash everywhere,
making debris of the
hard-hearted
and foolish.

One bird told another
and he in turn
another
until
in no time,
word was passed
halfway 'round the world;

and though the bluebird
could not communicate
the exact
meaning
of the language,
so foreign,
still, he sang,
and the sense
of the thing
was imparted;

and though the woman
did not know
she was hearing it
in the bluebird's song,
that secret thing
the man had told
the nightingale
so far away
was imprinted on her heart,
and she felt it
and put her hand
over her breast,
and breathed in
and smiled;

And the man
did not know
what the birds
had done.

I love you with my
heart, hands, eyes, breath, feet and lips.
will it be enough


I can feel them there,
heartbeats echoing softly
when I hold you close


Give your love to me;
I will treasure and hold it
with an open hand


Hungry to see you;
and even after they do,
my eyes still want more


I hold my breath and
count to twenty to quench it,
this longing for you


When you laugh with me,
my soul feels so much lighter,
my feet start to dance


Silent lips await
their chance to sing your praises,
or kiss you softly

when an owl screeches,
when a child interrupts,
when you look again
and it isn't there,
when the poles shift
and the earth rumbles
and the voice of God says, 'quit',
when pundits prefer,
when a light bulb burns out,
when your computer reboots
because of a power outage.
when you have to hide it
because of a knock at the door,
when moist lips entice you
to forget what you are doing,
when a vagrant breeze
lifts the paper,
when you've achieved
the fourteenth line,
when the dentist
is through with you,
that's a good time
to end a poem

We’ve all felt it,
been thwarted by the
thwarting forces of Thwart,
left to wonder
what we’ve done,
what was our part, well
come inside and ponder
until the forces depart.
You would think it simple
to just get up and go,
do the things that
you want to, but
oh, no, oh no,
the first tool rule is
always applied, that
the first thing you need
has found somewhere to hide;
you hunt and you search,
it’s nowhere to be found,
and you thought your organizing
skills were so sound; here
have some tea, sit for awhile
and talk to me. It’s the gremlins
I say, they are always trying
to mess up my day. Oh, you don’t
believe in fairies and such,
then, what do you think
has been hindering so much?

I woke up
wondering,
why is the sun
shining in through
a north-facing window?
it was
my big maple tree,
bright yellow
in its dazzling,
autumnal display;

the trip to town
was a glorious drive,
the sky
full of falling leaves,
windows open,
my half-finished poem
flapping
on the seat,
I drove more slowly
dodging wooly bears;

the autumn colors
remind me
of the corduroy shirts
I wore
as a boy,
and the multi-colored
drip candles I made
in my bohemian days;

I’ll do my shopping,
then see if the leaves
have fallen
from the gingko tree
on the college lawn,
then go back home
and think
of all the things
I’ll write
while sitting
at the kitchen table
this winter,
by the woodstove,
when the leaves
are all mulch
in my garden,
the snow is falling,
and evergreens
reign supreme.

You can listen
to the news,
you can express
your views,
you can point your toes
when you dance,
but the future, my friend
will unroll like a scroll
and there won’t be
a thing there by chance.

There are things
that you hear,
there are things
that you fear,
there are demons
inhabiting dreams;
but events that unfold,
or so I’ve been told,
are not the results
of man’s schemes.

So retire your talk
and just go for a walk,
look up at the stars overhead,
and be thankful that you
have no claim on the view,
and then, laugh, be happy,
go to bed.

Black and white are all the same to me,
I have this attitude because I’m blind,
I never wanted this to be;

when people touch me, I want so much to see
just who they are. I know that I would find
them different, not like in this darkened sea;

and the sort of person that I want to be
is always thoughtful of others, and kind
respecting their differences with charity;

We all sometimes act toward others stupidly,
not thinking how they’ll take things in their mind,
we call them names without apology;

So can we all just stop the vitriol and be
a race of people who have left the hate behind,
and try to broaden our humanity?

There are many things that make us disagree
But maybe we could leave them undefined,
And concentrate on things that make us free,
Like love, respect, and our accountability.

I sat up all night
by the pool of sleep
stirring the water
with my toes,
but didn’t slip in;
you floated easily
beside me,
a couple
singing harmonies
behind an open door,
inspiring the curiosity
of children.

Let me be known as the Sinks Grove sentinel,
I’ll keep a watch from dusk until dawn;
I’ll report on the news even though unsensational,
On the street, up the hill, at the store, on my lawn;

I’ll tell you the things that I hear from the birds,
Report on the rabbits that squeeze through the fence,
Sustain your attention with irrelevant words,
And keep an eye out for Marjorie Pence;

If Ed wins the lottery, I’ll give you a shout,
If the dogs keep barking, I’ll stop up my ears
If you’re worried about thieves that are lurking about
I’ll give you a call and calm all your fears.

Let me be known as the Sinks Grove sentinel,
Sensible and skeptical, lamentable, intentional.

Life seems to be
an arduous climb
up steep, winding roads,
with harrowing bends,
to the top of a mountain
where you can turn
in a full circle,
and see all around you; or

it is a long sea voyage, all alone,
where you can see that same horizon
all the way around;
the monotony tempered
by the anticipation
of reaching shore
somewhere, maybe to find
something new; or

it is a long walk
in the woods, lost,
all the trees seeming the same,
until you find a clearing
and see a house,
or hear the familiar sound
of traffic on a nearby road; or

it is a journey upriver
battling against the current,
losing headway when you angle
for either shore; frustrated
and out of strength from
the continual rowing; or

it is a tedious drudgery of work
on an assembly line
of routine and boredom,
your paycheck no remediation,
your weekends bland, similar,
a welcome rest, but
holding no promise; or

it is a tiring routine of meals,
the same over and over,
until you end up putting
hot sauce on everything,
and your mouth and your mind
go numb in rebellion
to the lack of creativity; or

it could be a walk through a city
down unfamiliar alleyways,
large buildings blocking
your view, with a fear
inhibiting the anticipation
of finding your way out again,
a foreboding at every corner; or

maybe it’s an accumulation of meaningless things,
a discarding of meaningless things,
an argument over meaningless things,
a long oration from meaningless people
about the meaning of meaningless things; or

it can be a search through a library
of information, roaming
through the stacks, taking
books down, looking
for secret directions,
hidden meaning between the lines; but

sometimes, it is the joy
of a song with others, the
harmony of worship, the
serenity of hope, the
other-worldliness and the tears
of the sadness for yourself and
everyone else caught up in it,
and the faith for what might be; and

sometimes, it is just
the joy of food with others,
sitting together in comfortable chairs,
the chitchat and the laughter,
the regaling of memories
of how you somehow made it,
miraculously, this far;

and then, as if waking
from a dream, you climb from
your bed, dress painfully,
groping for your slippers, and
you stumble through your home, and
lurch to the door, open it and marvel
at something radiant and unexpected,
a prospect of new adventure,
where everything will become
the epitome of all you sought, and
you will become the epitome
of all that you have ever been.

typically, when something
fell from the kitchen counter
onto the kitchen floor, the
old man let loose a stream
of invective, but he held it in
this morning; he was expecting
company and didn't want
to be found in a kitchen
full of asterisks

fog dampens
the irritation
of a barking dog,
that's what I like
about fog

There is
a part of
a teak
armchair,
left out
in the rain;
I sanded it
and buffed it
and waxed it;
this is a good thing
to do, taking
old wood
and making it
pretty;
I stripped some
electrical wire, and
hammered it
into expressions
of my longing;
I listened
to the silent birds
and the radio,
wandering around
wondering;
suddenly
never happened,
but eventually
I found my way
back into
the house.
There was still
the laundry,
and somehow
I had forgotten
to eat dinner.